Am meisten gelesen ▸
Dave Bonta
Love after 50 doesn’t make the pop charts.
It’s too absurd.
Absurd as ice cubes settling in a glass
when one pours hot coffee over them,
shedding their sharp edges.
Absurd as the day-time ghost
of one’s breath on a cold morning.
Absurd as the smell of soil after a rain—
why should mere dirt outdo all other odors?
Absurd as grinding steel on
a wobbly bench grinder with a corroding belt,
that hair of sparks,
the pleasant way they prickle against the skin.
i wish i could hate you
because hatred moves mountains and ends lives
in a frantic, desperate blaze no one can stop
but fear shackles me to the ground
begging for the end
and all i have is a spark of what could've been
she has little
innocent demons
inside her eyes,
and they recklessly
play with matches.
--I've never seen sparks so
pretty
I gave you what you needed to hear,
Let's take it day by day.
I didn't wish that upon us, no.
I am the reckless
The one who rebels passionately,
I don't want day by day.
Because I crave here and now
That fleeting spark we both feel,
I dare you catch it.
Live it.
This moment will never resurrect,
Live this feeling
Even just for a while,
We might never have a moment such as this again.
From where I lingered in a lull in March
Outside the sugar-house one night for choice,
I called the fireman with a careful voice
And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch:
‘O fireman, give the fire another stoke,
And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.’
I thought a few might tangle, as they did,
Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare
Hill atmosphere not cease to glow,
And so be added to the moon up there.
The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show
On every tree a bucket with a lid,
And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow.
The sparks made no attempt to be the moon.
They were content to figure in the trees
As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades.